Uwu Baka falsettos

Work, Fuck, Repeat

What am I supposed to do when he closes the door to the den, hugs me tight, then spins me around and hugs me again from behind?

When two things are lined up perfectly, and a tent builds itself in my pants, and there is a sudden bulge against my backside?

When the tension grows too much to handle, so you end up bent over the bed of the den, getting pounded, fingers intertwined, his hair draping about my face and his hand in my hair, pulling every now and then because he knows that it turns me right on and earns an automatic moan or gasp.

What the fuck am I supposed to do, while I'm getting the living life fucked out of me, and his wife is in the kitchen making dinner, and his eight year old is playing chess all by himself?

And then when his wife calls us out for dinner, I can't go because my legs are so shaky and, oh, but baby, I haven't- and, baby, I'm a mess.

So he brings you dinner and locks the door, and you eat together, without the waiting, depressed wife and the traumatized child.

And you push your plates aside and before you know it, your lips have crashed together, your tongues fighting for dominance like a messy battlefield and before you know it, there he goes, his hand skating down and into your jeans, into your boxers, wrapped around a place many other men know, but he, he knows the best.

And, he's making the pleasure more than you can bare, because you've been waiting for at least fifteen minutes, and you know he wants it too because the way he gradually speeds up and the kiss becomes much sloppier and then-

Oh, fuck, my dear. Yes, that felt so lovely, didn't it? But of course, you're not done there, you're never just, done there, and so before you know it your on your knees and it's your turn to give him heaven and there he is, this time it's not his tongue in his mouth, and your tongue is working so hard and you look up at him with those, 'big brown puppy eyes', as he calls them, and he gasps and pushes your head forward and soon enough, there's your reward.

And so you pull away and lick your lips, wipe any that missed your mouth, because, oh dear, it's crazy how muh of one present you can get, and then, it's still not over.

Your back where you were thirty minutes ago, bent over the bed. And it's repetitive. You thrust, you release that sweet joy, and he does too, and fuck does it feel good. But no, you don't stop after just once, you can keep this up all night.

And

You

Do.

And for some reason, it shocked you that you woke up with bruises, hickeys, naked, and a sore, sore ass.

Why does it still shock you? That you don't know, as it's practically routine for you, now; going home with him and fucking all night, waking up with bruises that hurt so bad but felt so good, and alone in that bed, because there he is, getting ready for work. Either that, or he's already left, and so then later you'll have to go catch a bus to his office and wait there for him all day.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

So what do you do when he asks you to live with him? You have your own apartment that you can barely pay for, and sure, you could use less stress of monthly rent, but you don't want the extra stress of living in the same house as your lovers WIFE.

Yes. You do move in with him, of course you do. This means you have him whenever you want. The den is no longer the den, it's your room. His room. Our room.

And at night, he doesn't just fuck, he holds you, and rubs your back, and kisses you, and loves you, and he is yours.

He's not, yours, because he can't be, he has a wife and kid, and being a queer is frowned upon, but he's yours as much as he can be, and that in itself is all you want.

So, now his kid kind of hates you, kind of loves you. You're nice to him every time you see him. You help your lovers wife with household chores; cook dinner for her and everyone else.

But, no matter what, you won't ever, ever be the same as them, because one day you weren't there, and one day you were, and they've always been there.

Only one of them will truly love you. He will hold you, kiss you, hug you, touch you, blow you, fuck you, and he will be yours no matter what.

And so, every night, after work, you two will go into the den- your ROOM, it's your room now, isn't it, - and bend over half the furniture in that room, develop a chorus of skin on skin, moans, gasps, all of the sort, and then you'll fall asleep on your bed.

And some nights, when you're feeling frisky, you'll bend him over. You'll give him the bruises, and the hickeys, and the sore, sore ass.

And you'll melt when he stares up at you with those blue eyes. Is that how he feels when you look up at him?

Or, does he feel like a useless whore? Because that's what you feel like, sometimes, when he uses you over and over and over on a Saturday because what else is there to do when you're a lusty couple who can't go on a date without, probably getting screamed slurs at?

So, still, when you go to a bar on the same Saturday after a day of fucking, you both get drunk as fuck, and then get touchy, so you get a cab home and soon enough, doors locked, bent over his desk, his bulge against your bare ass.

And then it's a night of fucking, as well. You do it again the next day because there's nothing else to do on the weekend.

Wash, rinse, repeat. Or, perhaps, work, fuck, repeat? But still, what do you do when all of that happens every day?

You die in your thirties.